Poole finished his tea and reached for the pot. Banks let him pour another large mug. “Because I don’t know anything,” he said. “I told you, Brenda was out of line.”
“No smoke without fire, Les.”
“Corne on, Mr Banks, you know me. Do I look like a child-molester?”
“How would I know? What do you think they look like? Ogres with hairs growing out of their noses and warts on their bald heads? Do you think they go around carrying signs?”
“She was trying to stir it, to wind me up. Honest. Ask her. Ask her if she really thinks I had anything to do with it.”
“I have, Les.”
“Yeah? And what did she say?”
“How did you feel when she told you Gemma had been abducted?”
“Feel?”
“Yes, Les. It’s something people do. Part of what makes them human.”
“I know what it means. Don’t think I don’t have feelings.” He paused, and gulped down more tea. “How did I feel? I dunno.”
“Were you upset?”
“Well, I was worried.”
“Were you surprised?”
“Course I was.”
“Did anything spring to mind, anything to make you wonder maybe about what had happened?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do, Les.”
Banks looked over at Gristhorpe, who nodded grimly.
Poole licked his lips again. “Look, what’s going on here? You trying to fit me up?”
Banks let the silence stretch. Poole squirmed in his hard chair. “I need a piss,” he said finally.
Banks stood up. “Come on, then.”
They walked down the corridor to the gents and Banks stood by the inside of the door while Poole went to the
urinal.
“Tell us where Gemma is, Les,” Banks said, as Poole relieved himself. “It’ll save us all a lot of trouble.”
All of a sudden, the stall door burst open. Poole turned. A red-faced giant in a rumpled grey suit with short fair hair and hands like hams stood in front of him. Poole pissed all over his shoes and cursed, cringing back against the urinal, holding his arms out to ward off an attack.
“Is that him?” the giant said. “Is that the fucking pervert who?”
Banks dashed over and held him back. “Jim, don’t. We’re still questioning?”
“Is that the fucking pervert or isn’t it?”
Hatchley strained to get past Banks, who was backing towards the door with Poole scrabbling behind him. “Get out, Les,” Banks said. “While you can. I’ll keep him back. Go on. Hurry!”
They backed into the corridor and two uniformed constables came to hold Hatchley, still shouting obscenities. Banks put a protective arm around Poole and led him back to the interview room. On the way, they passed Susan Gay, who looked at Poole and blushed. Banks followed her gaze. “Better zip it up, Les,” he said, “or we’ll have you for indecent exposure as well.”
Poole did as he was told and Banks ushered him back into the room, Hatchley cursing and shouting behind them, held back by the two men.
“What the hell’s going on?” Gristhorpe asked.
“It’s Jim,” Banks explained, sitting Poole down again. “You know what he’s been like since that bloke interfered with his little girl.”
“Aye,” said Gristhorpe, “but can’t we keep a leash on him?”
“Not easy, sir. He’s a good man. Just a bit unhinged at
the moment.”
Poole followed the exchange, paling.
“Look,” he said, “I ain’t no pervert. Tell him. Keep him away from me.”
“We’ll try,” Banks said, “but we might have a hard time getting him to believe us.”
Poole ran a hand through his greasy hair. “All right,” he said. “All right. I’ll tell you all I know. Okay? Just keep him off me.”
Banks stared at him.
“Then you can tell them all I’m not a pervert and I had nothing to do with it, all right?”
“If that’s the way it turns out. If I believe you. And it’s a big if, Les, after the bollocks you’ve been feeding us this past week.”
“I know, I know.” Poole licked his lips. “Look, first off, you’ve got to believe me, I had nothing to do with what
